Those Who Suffer In Silence
by xoxoBlairWaldorf
Summary: I stop pretending I am okay. I don’t cry though. Crying is pathetic. Crying is for girls seeking attention. I don’t cry.


12.25.08

Those who suffer in silence are the ones who need reassurance.

Those who suffer in silence are the ones suffering the most.

Cutting, eating disorders; people think we do it as a call for attention. That's not entirely true. Sure, I sometimes think if my family and friends really were concerned for me they would notice me sneaking off to the bathroom. Other times I wished they didn't pay attention. I wish I could freeze time, do my business, and be back before they noticed. I can't have both, but I can't decide which I'd prefer.

Christmas should be a time of celebration, eating great food, enjoying the company of your relatives. It _should_ be fun. I shouldn't be sitting on the bathroom titles on the abandoned second floor looking at myself in the full length mirror. The room is dark. I don't want to be noticed, not that they would even realize I was gone.

Over 100 elite Upper East Siders crowd my penthouse tonight. If an 18 year old girl slips out of the party for a few minutes who would notice? No one.

My breathing is deep and shaky. It gets like this when I am about to do what I'm about to do. The face in the mirror is not the mask I wear in front of others. I stop pretending I am okay. I don't cry though. Crying is pathetic. Crying is for girls seeking attention. I don't cry.

I stand up feeling uncomfortable in my dress. My arms look huge, my legs look chunky, my stomach like a pregnant women's. I lift the dress over my hips, over my stomach, up to my bra. My sides seem to hang over the edge of my tights. I turn for a side angle. My thighs look bulky, my torso thick. I turn for a rear view. The word _fat_ can't even describe my ass.

I take a spot near the toilet, still in front of the mirror. The deep breaths continue as I pull my knees to my chest.

_I shouldn't have eaten that cake. I shouldn't have eaten so much. I'm fat enough as it is. I've gained so much weight already._

My left hand holds back my hair as my right shoves its index finger down my throat. It takes a couple shoves, but finally the cheesecake comes back up and into the toilet bowl. The aftertaste of my vomit is awful, but familiar.

I feel the food pacing its way slowly back up my throat. I feel the roundness of stomach. I feel the guilt and qualms of eating the fattening desserts. I know I'm not done.

The process repeats. I think of things to keep the food coming up:

I shove my finger down my throat. _Size 0._

I shove my finger down my throat. _Skinny models._

I shove my finger down my throat. _Penelope asking me if I gained weight._

I shove my finger down my throat. _My mother comparing me to Serena.._

I shove my finger down my throat. _Chuck._

I don't cry but tears do escape from my eyes. I can't control them. They don't appear because I am angry or sad. The watering of my eyes occurs when my oxygen intake is cut short by the purging of my food.

I don't know what this pattern is called. Perhaps I can label it as a "cleansing" process. "Cleansing" my body of imperfection. Insecurities are to blame for all of this. _I need to be skinny._ What I am doing is disgusting, unattractive, an unhealthy, but I can't stop. The remorse from my actions is too strong. I refuse to call this condition bulimia. Or maybe it's not that I refuse, but I can't.

I look in the mirror once more. I blink I few times to rid my eyes of any redness or excess water. I wipe my face clean of any smeared make up marks. Deciding I look decent enough, I open the door of the bathroom and head downstairs discreetly.

I joined the people who I call "friends" in the living room. They are sipping drinks, chatting; some are on their cell phones checking the latest scoop on gossip girl. A few look up as I enter the room. I receive a couple greeting nods and smiles, but nothing more.

I guess I won't have to choose after all. Between them knowing or not knowing about my "cleansing" process, that is. I guess they aren't concerned for me at all. None of them noticed anything. _None_ of them noticed _anything_ at all.

Those who suffer in silence are the ones who need reassurance.

Those who suffer in silence are the ones suffering the most.

_I suffer in silence._


End file.
